


Ends And Beginnings

by omega12596



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depends On Which End Reader Chooses, Drama, M/M, One End Is, Seriously One End Is NOT HAPPY, possible major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 17:23:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7541434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omega12596/pseuds/omega12596
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A possible resolution for this series: Wake Up Dead by vampireisthenewblack</p><p>One of the best series I've read by one of my favorite authors, this series had been left unresolved for a couple of years and I couldn't leave it there (for my sanity, lol). So, I wrote my own end(s).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Begins

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Never Free](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130484) by [vampireisthenewblack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampireisthenewblack/pseuds/vampireisthenewblack). 



> If you haven't read http://archiveofourown.org/series/61702 (Wake Up Dead) I don't know that much of this will make sense. So go, read it. Altogther, it's less than 10K, but worth the read (totally, even if the eighth part upset me so much, I've been pondering this addenda for two years).
> 
> NOTE: The first chapter is a shared start to the latter chapters. Reading it is a must. Chapter Two involves heavy, holy shit heavy, angst an unhappy ending, and major character death. Chapter Three involves some angst, some pretty dramatic confrontations, but a hopeful and positive end (toward a new beginning).

Stiles waited at the foot of the stairs until the sun was well below the horizon. He’d spent most of the day doing much the same, trying to gather the will to follow Derek out but he’d failed. The instinct to avoid Sol’s caress overrode his not inconsiderable will.

So he waited.

He’d called Scott an hour ago. His friend, brother from another mother, the Alpha, reacted as well as Stiles thought he would to his request. In the end, though, Scott caved. As Stiles knew he would.

Looking around the basement, the leftovers of his Maker’s life, the scatterings of two decades of his own life, and Derek’s… For a moment, the pain in his lifeless heart was almost enough to overwhelm the unending, fiery hunger constantly twisting in his belly. As he’d wasted the hours, waiting for nightfall, Stiles tried to be objective, to understand where Derek’s decision grew from, but in the end, all he could see was Derek walking away. Breaking his promise. Unhappy and unsatisfied and tired, so very tired.

He was certain Derek thought cutting ties, at least the intimate ones, would somehow spare Stiles pain, down the road. In fifty years, give or take, when the wolf finally found peace once more in the arms of his family. Derek hadn’t said he’d leave altogether, of course not. Afterall, an unfed Stiles would likely result in the exact situation that made Stiles undead to begin with.

And he was sure Derek felt Stiles should get out, meet someone else, have sex with someone else, feed on someone else (hopefully supernatural in nature, of course, yet still)... A load of horseshit if ever there was one, but even twenty-two years of loving and arguing and lust and companionship - of _trust_ and _belonging_ hadn’t been enough to eliminate Derek Hale’s enormous martyr complex.

Stiles shook his head and smiled softly, not with happiness but in bittersweet pain. There were so many things he wanted to see. So many things he wanted to do. Twenty years had been long enough for Stiles to learn control of the hunger, to master himself. The need rode him every moment of the day and night, but it had long ago become a constant buzz, a sort of preternatural tinnitus he learned to ignore. Only when the buzz became the violent roar of thousand locusts did it garner more than passing notice - and those times were fewer and farther between than good Star Wars trilogies.

Taking a breath he didn’t need, Stiles slung a small bag over his shoulder and began his ascent. He thought about the book he found a few weeks back, small and leather and buried behind a loose cobble, hidden from even the sharpest eyes. If he hadn’t been hunting the soft squeak of some irritating rodent, he’d likely never have found it.

Tom, his Maker, wasn’t the work’s original owner and based on the odd scent and feel of the pages between those thin, worn, and aged flaps, the hand that wrote the words had come millennia earlier. The early pages were written in a script Stiles had no idea how to interpret and considering the amount of research he’d done in ancient languages, the fact he didn’t recognize the shapes spoke volumes. As the pages turned, though, he saw additions in more familiar movements of ink on page, until finally the words coalesced into English, in Tom’s hand, and the book’s secrets were finally revealed.

He’d been trying to find a way to broach what he’d found with Derek for a week now, but hadn’t found a good time or a good way. Moot now. As Stiles exited the basement, then the building, he knew he never would. Because as much as Derek seemed to think his choices were in Stiles’ best interests, at their roots it was Derek’s well-being that most benefited from walking out the door. Growing old while Stiles remained ageless, leaving Stiles behind, alone to watch the passing of ages until the sun itself rose for the final time… The guilt that surely settled in the wolf was likely too much to bear. And so, he’d left. 

The wolf’s argument about looking too old for Stiles, being to old for him, was ridiculous. Stiles was dead, had been for fifteen years. They only went out at night and even then, who the fuck cared if it looked like a teenager was being diddled by an aging pedo? If anyone came to “investigate” such claims, Stiles could wipe their minds and send them on their way with a flick of his wrist and a tiny sip of their blood. Oh, yes, in twenty years he’d learned there was a bit more truth to some vampiric legend than just an aversion to a warm tan. 

He could compel humans and some supernaturals (ghouls, zombies, ghosts, hellhounds, and demons). He could enthrall them, make minions, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Running water hindered Stiles not, nor did religious tokens, or garlic, though a stake through the heart would paralyze him, cutting off his head wasn’t the end but did likewise, but only sunlight or fire could end his immortal wanderings.

As he made his way through the shadows and toward the place Scott agreed to meet, he used his heightened senses to take in all the things, great and small, which filled the night around him with life. Being a vampire had truly given him an appreciation for the energy of the world he’d never appreciated as a seventeen year old human. Fights of young lovers, the distance of old ones, a cat breeding down a dark alley, an owl scanning the shadows for the tiny movements of its prey. While the Earth turned, nothing was truly still, nothing ever really dead.

Not him. Not his mom. Not his dad.

The last thought, honestly, had made this decision so simple. Over the years, the wolves had found partners and left them, had children, grown up. A long time ago, Derek had informed a thoroughly besotted Scott that werewolves were not real wolves - there was no such thing as mates. And perhaps that was true, but at the time Stiles’ mind had turned to his father and he’d thought maybe werewolves didn’t mate for life, but Stilinski’s did.

Derek was it for Stiles. He’d been it since Stiles was a scared shitless sixteen year old, staring down a fucking werewolf from the other side of steel mesh in his dad’s patrol car.

Now, both of Stiles’ anchors were gone - if not in spirit then in physicality - and he had no intention of becoming Tom. Because Stiles didn’t want another lover or another feed bag or whatever the hell it was Derek thought he needed, wanted, or was missing in his life. Early on, yes, he’d fed from whatever source he could, switching between Scott and Derek, sometimes Kira or Isaac. But after a few years, when he’d learned how to manage the need, understood his power and could control himself, he stopped. The only source he took sustenance from was Derek and in return, he gave everything he had; his love, devotion, loyalty, protection, the very essence of himself.

He didn’t want someone else’s blood in his veins, didn’t want some new scent tainting his body. And maybe that was selfish of him, maybe it was self-centered or petulant, but Stiles could not have cared less. Derek wanted to be free and Stiles would never, ever force him to do something against his will. 

He kicked a can along the street side and sighed, digging fingers through his hair. Thank god he’d let it grow some before he’d died. Living forever with a buzz cut would have sucked. He chuckled softly and wished, just for a moment, he could be furious. At Derek, at Tom, at the world in general, but really, all he felt was empty, destroyed really, and thoroughly resigned.

Pavement gave way to gravel, then to dirt, finally to the soft carpet of grass and dead leaves. He heard a ragged intake of breath and spotted a figure ahead, his mouth curving up slightly on the right side. Squaring his shoulders, Stiles lifted his chin and strode forward, gaze shifting to the silver orb in the sky.

_Give me peace._


	2. An End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wanting the full angst, fucking misery ridden, rotten shit of a tear-your-heart-out unnecessarily tragic end, read this chapter, lol. Its got heavy sad-feels but a solid, end-of-the-line. Major Character Death.

“Hey.”

Scott looked up from the forest floor and slid from the hood of his truck. His eyes were rimmed with red, puffy, and a vermilion hue shone from behind the chocolate of his irises. “It’s really shitty that you asked me to do this.”

“Yeah, I know. But there’s no one else. And a long time ago, you promised you wouldn’t let me become him. This is me calling in that particular marker.”

“Stiles, that will never happen. You know we won’t let it, me, Derek, the pack!”

“Scotty, boy, I don’t want to be the blood-sucking heirloom that gets passed down, generation to generation, of this pack. And you don’t want it either,” he held up his hand to ward off Scott’s next words. “If you can tell me, honestly, that you are totally okay with me feeding off Holly or Annabeth, or Michael, and their children, and their children’s children, until the end of the world, I’ll relent.”

The triple-tick of Scott’s heartbeat, the stutter of air in his chest, was answer enough for both of them.

Stiles dropped his bag onto the sleek black fiberglass where Scott’s butt had been perched, before reaching out and cupping his best friend’s shoulder with his hand. “I know this isn’t how you wanted things to go. I know this isn’t what you hoped for me, for us, when we went out into the Preserve looking for the thrill of a dead body all those years ago. But it’s okay, Scott. I love you. It isn’t your fault. Eat some curly fries for me and marathon the original trilogy at Christmas.”

Tears welled and spilled over Scott’s face, older, wiser, still crooked-jawed and puppy-cute despite his nearly forty years. “You motherfucker.”

Stiles squeezed and dropped his hand. “Everything you need is in there. Give the book to Lyds, she’ll know what to do with it.”

Scott scrubbed at his face, sniffing hard as he reached for the sack. “I don’t want you to suffer.”

“I won’t. Once I’m still, I won’t feel anything. You know that thanks to those witches back in ‘18.”

The Alpha nodded and withdrew a rowan stake from within the cloth and a small, obsidian box. He set the wood down and opened the box, finding it lined with silver. There was a seal around the lip, one that would protect the contents for ages and he set it open on the hood, before taking up the stake once more.

“I love you, man. I always will. Tell him… Tell him I meant what I said. This changes nothing. And tell him to live, for the both of us.”

Scott nodded, eyes shimmering again, and stepped forward. He wrapped his fingers around Stiles' wrist and pulled the other male into his warmth, arm holding him in a crushing grip. 

“I love you too, Stiles. Find peace.”

**

It took less than ten minutes for Stiles to become glittering silver, powder white, and charcoal grey. Snot dripping from his nose, vision so blurred he couldn’t see past the end of it, chest crushed by the overwhelming weight of loss and grief and not a little rage, Scott carefully, gently, fucking reverently scooped all the ashen lightness that had been his best friend into the sterling hold of Stiles’ chosen urn.

He left to stake on the ground as he turned toward his truck.

**

“He wanted you to have this. He also told me to tell you he meant what he said. This changes nothing. So live, live for the both of you.” Scott wanted to bash Derek’s skull in with the small black box. Instead he set it on the table in front of the other werewolf, turned on heel, and moved toward the front door.

As he turned the knob, he hesitated a moment. “You’re an Omega now. As dead to me as he is.”

Something about the choked, anguished noise he heard in reply eased a bit of the unrelenting agony that threatened to stop Scott’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with the source material, transformative works are welcome. I hope these resolutions I offer might assuage the achy spot in other readers' chests, even if only because it offers a solid finish. When/if vampireisthenewblack comes back to play in this sandbox, I'm certain she'll (or he'll) do a better job than I. I can't wait to read it!


	3. Start Anew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wanting a still a bit angsty, just a touch of misery, hopeful and positive end, read this.

“I should have known Scott would wuss out. Fuck, that guy, always spouting about loyalty but doesn’t actually have any.” A spark of anger unfurled inside Stiles but he quickly quashed it, rolling his shoulders and exhaling as he approached the oh so familiar shape of Derek’s Camaro.

“He _loves_ you, Stiles. I love you. Asking him to dust you is about the shittiest thing you could have done.”

“He _promised_. _You promised_. And you know what, I’m trying to remember when I have ever given my word and then backed out on it.”

The struggling breath Derek tried to take offered little balm for the empty void Stiles felt growing deep inside. 

“Never, Stiles. You’ve never promised and then broken it.”

“Well, good for me then.”

He clutched the bag between his arm and his ribs and turned in profile to Derek. “You made your choice. So have I. If you won’t do this, I’ll go to Chris because he won’t vacillate, won’t prevaricate, won’t give me a line of shit about _life being worth living_ or whatever fucking _tripe_ you fed yourself to make it okay to break your word to me.”

“Stiles, this isn’t what I-”

“What you wanted? Okay. And? You walking out the door this morning certainly wasn’t what I wanted. Guess that’s just how it goes.”

“Stiles, please, don’t do this. Please, I can’t…” Finally, Derek’s voice broke. Finally, it seemed, the weight of his decision ruined his perfect control.

It wasn’t that Stiles reveled in Derek’s pain. He couldn’t allow it to change his mind. “Neither can I, Derek. Not just can’t, I _won’t_. I won’t live without you. I won’t take a younger, more socially acceptable partner. I won’t use you for food and give nothing in return. I refuse.”

He turned away from Derek, tucking the bag closer, and thought of the book in its depths. Shaking his head, he began to walk away.

“Stiles, stop, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, please, don’t go!”

The vampire clenched his teeth, muscles in his jaw and neck flexing hard enough he could have ground his teeth to dust. “Derek, I have never, ever forced, compelled, or tried to extort you into doing anything, anything, you didn’t want to do. I love you more than I can possibly express and I will never be another person who twists and burns and warps you for their own purposes. I told you, at the beginning, to kill me. You should have, it would have saved both of us this agony.”

“Stiles, I… I take it back. Just please, I can’t lose you too.”

He spun around, growling in his throat. “You can’t lose me? You fucking walked out on me! Did you honestly think, even if I hadn’t chosen this, that I’d - what? That I’d stick around Beacon Hills? That I’d be able to take your blood without bleeding myself? That I’d somehow be able to watch you take another to your _bed_ , to _breed_ with them? Jesus fucking Christ, Derek, exactly how much punishment do you think I need to endure for being immortal?”

“None! No, Stiles, I would never-”

That finally pushed Stiles into anger, pure and white-hot. “You said you would never leave me, Derek. Don’t think for an instant I believe you _never_ anything again.” Spite fueling him, rage at the unfairness, grief at all he’d lost due to a choice Stiles never made- but that Derek and Scott had made for him- he jerked the bag off his shoulder and plunged his hand inside.

He threw the tiny tome at Derek, catching the wolf on the chin. “Take it. Make sure Lydia gets it. I don’t imagine Chris would share that information and it should be shared. So others like me don’t have to go through this.”

“What? Stiles, what is this?”

He gave the werewolf his back and started back toward his crypt, a dark basement where the sun couldn’t reach. “I hoped it would be redemption and a chance at happiness. Now, it’s nothing. I hope you find peace, Derek. Don’t feel guilty, it’s alright to be relieved you don’t have to worry about me any more.”

And with those words, Stiles held nothing back as he disappeared between one beat of Derek’s heart and the next.

**

Derek surged forward, but it was too late. Stiles was gone. The urge to howl his misery to the sky choked the breath from his lungs but he didn’t deserve the release that would bring. Instead, he fell to his knees and grit his teeth, sobbing almost soundlessly, air hiccuping in his lungs, salted water raining down his face.

He never, not for a moment, thought his choice would push Stiles to this. He had been prepared for rage, for icy-silence, for having his heart ripped out as the younger man hopped from bed to bed, body to body. It was better for Stiles, he needed someone younger, someone that could hope to keep up with him. And Derek just couldn’t anymore.

As a Beta in the prime of his life, he’d still been disadvantaged, but at least he might have had a chance. Now, almost fifty years old, his reflexes weren’t what they once were, his senses not as sharp, his body not as strong. And though Stiles hadn’t fallen into a bloodlust in over a decade, the potential was there, always there, and the last thing he ever wanted was for his death to be on Stiles soul.

No, it seemed now, Stiles’ death would be on his.

He looked down at the book the vampire had left with him. 

_“I hoped it would be redemption.”_

Derek clutched the thing tight and struggled to his feet. He had to stop Stiles from doing this, even though the hypocrisy of his stance twisted in his belly. He slipped around the side of the car and dropped into the driver’s seat, starting the machine a second before he pressed the button to connect to Lydia.

“I need you in Beacon Hills,” his voice broke over the words. “It’s about Stiles.”

**

 

“The spiteful spirit in me wants to watch you fucking suffer, wither away and die, for doing this to him. Do you understand me?”

Derek nodded. He deserved the banshee's unmitigated disgust.

“This thing is old. Like pre-Sumerian old. The pages are skin, magicked to prevent deterioration.”

Derek suspected as much but he didn’t comment.

“It explains how a vampire can create a bond. A way to extend the lifespan of a companion to match the vampires’, but without compulsion or mind-control. And it won’t work for all vampires. Only those whose companion, or companions, agree with free will and only for vampires that have never drained the life force from another. It isn’t complicated, doesn’t take fancy spells or exotic ingredients. All you need is a spark of magic and the will to believe.”

Derek jerked his gaze from the folded hands in his lap and up to Lydia. “What?”

She pressed her lips in a thin line and shook her head. “You heard me well enough the first time.”

“Why didn’t he say anything?!”

Her eyes flared with power and the hair on his body stood up as it crackled around them. “Maybe because he didn’t know how to broach the subject. Maybe he was afraid you didn’t really want to spend eternity with him. Maybe,” she paused and leaned forward, palms pressed to the table in front of him as she moved her face close and dropped her voice to a dark, dangerous hiss, “he struggled with the thought that somehow, you would end up lumping him in with Kate, with Jennifer, with Peter and believe the only reason he’d ask was to use you for his own ends.”

If she’d pressed a blade into his heart, her words could not have struck more true. 

“What have I done?”

She snarled and reared back from him. “Exactly what I always knew you would. Pretended somehow giving him up would be good for anyone besides _you_.” Lydia spat at him, phlegm landing on his cheek, and though he flinched, Derek made no other movement.

“I’ve shipped him to Chris. Standard freight across country, by ship across the Atlantic. He has enough blood to last him the trip, also mine, and Chris will be waiting for him in Paris. I could have flown him, I offered so that his agony was minimized, but he didn’t want to take any chance something would go wrong and he’d be trapped around people and have to deal with a frenzy.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Don’t play the fool. It’s as pathetic as pretending to be a martyr. He loves you, beyond reason, beyond sanity, beyond preservation of his soul or his life or the world. You have a week. If he dies, do yourself a favor and get Chris to put you down. If I do it, I won’t make it quick.”

He listened to the sharp _clack, clack_ of Lydia’s heels as she left his house, her sputum cooling on his face.

**

“Stiles.”

He nodded to Chris Argent, the lights of the _Arc de Triomphe_ casting yellowish shadows around the older man. The years hadn’t exactly been kind to the aging hunter, but they showed more in the emptiness of his eyes and less in the faint lines on his skin.

“Chris.”

“I’d say it’s good to see you.”

Stiles cracked a small grin. “But it isn’t. I understand. Thank you, for doing this. Perhaps it will give you a bit of closure too.”

“What happened to Allison wasn’t your fault, Stiles. But I won’t pretend part of me doesn’t, or hasn’t, wished you died back then as well.”

The vampire ducked his head acknowledging Argent’s truth without belittling it by arguing. “So, where do you want to do it?”

“Not here. Paris is very rarely quiet. Unless you demand it, I’d rather make the trip to my place. It isn’t far. Only about an hour, give or take.”

Another hour, more or less, made little difference so Stiles nodded his agreement. “Alright.”

Chris motioned to the bag on the vampire’s shoulder, “that for me?”

“Yeah. Send the box to Scott, you know, after. He’ll know what to do with it.” 

The rode in silence, Stiles trying to capture every moment. He’d never been to France. Hell, he’d never been out of California. A pang of regret drew his hands into fists, but regret was wasted energy. Soon enough, if he was lucky, he’d be free of this immortal coil and whether oblivion or heaven waited, he knew regret wouldn’t linger.

“Please tell me you spoke with McCall. I really don’t want an enraged Alpha pounding on my door.”

Stiles looked over at Chris. “Yeah. I saw him, did the goodbyes, the tears. He disagreed but honestly, Mr. Argent, I’m pretty sure they’re all breathing a little easier today, knowing I won’t be here tomorrow. I’m okay with that.”

Chris frowned but offered no rejoinder and soon enough, they pulled past a set of old, wrought-iron gates and onto the Argent Estate. “We’re here. Just let me get things settled inside.” He waved a hand toward a flower-bordered path to the right of the car, “take that around back to the gardens. It’s beautiful and I thought… Well, anyway. I’ll be there shortly.”

Stiles stepped from the car and watched Chris stride into the house. He took an unnecessary breath and did as bade, fingers dancing over the taller flora as he made his way around the building. 

Wildflowers mixed with roses and lilies, a lovely gazebo the centerpiece that drew Stiles’ gaze. He nodded to himself. Argent was right, this was a peaceful, gorgeous place to meet his end. As he neared the structure, however, a soft scent of musk and warmth and wild teased his nostrils.

“Why are you here?”

“I made a mistake. Another in a long line. I’m here to rectify that.”

“Derek, no.”

“I’m not asking.” The werewolf stepped from the shadows, drawing to a stop directly in front of the vampire. “I fucked up. I’m getting older, Stiles, and I thought-”

“You thought I needed-”

“I thought about how much it would kill you if something happened and I couldn’t pull you back! I couldn’t stand the idea of being the reason you finally lost your shit and had to be hunted down.” Derek shouted the words, ignoring the spill of tears, ignoring the thickening phlegm in his throat. “I thought it would be easier to leave than to stay, for both of us.”

“Then let me go.”

“Never again. I read your book, I know what you hoped. Lydia made it clear why you hesitated to say anything. I’m telling you, I choose you, Stiles. I’ll always choose you. Please. If this doesn’t work, Chris is here and he has backup in the house. They’ll end us both.”

Stiles looked into beloved eyes, searching them for a hint of self-sacrifice, a flicker of uncertainty, any tell that belied the truth the even beat of Derek’s heart stated. Finding none, he crumpled a little into himself, felt tears spill. 

“I cannot ever do this with you again. Do you understand, Derek? Werewolves might not have mates, but Stilinski’s do, I do. I will find a way to stake myself in the sun because being without you takes all the color, all the vibrance from life. So you better be damn sure, fucking beyond question in your resolution, because if you walk away from me again, I will burn, gladly, and take the world with me.”

There was so much pain in Stiles’ voice, there was no way to hide it. He heard the high whine, felt strong arms come around him, and finally released the sobs he’d been choking back for a week.

“I’m sure. I am certain. Wolves may not mate, but I’m yours, Stiles, I’ve been yours and I will always be yours. We’re going to fight, we’re going to get pissed at each other, but we’ll make it through. I pro-”

“Don’t,” Stiles stuttered a bit and pulled back so he could look into Derek’s eyes. “Do not make a promise. I can’t hear one from you right now and believe it. I’ll take your statement as truth, but you’ve shattered my trust. So keep your promises until you’ve regained it, alright?”

Derek nodded. “Alright.”

The crunch of green things beneath a boot heel drew both supernatural creatures’ gazes.

“Boys? Have you decided?” Chris stood nearby, a crossbow held loosely at his side.

Stiles looked at the hunter, then at Derek, and nodded. “Yeah, we have. Look, if this doesn’t work, for whatever reason, do not hesitate. I’m faster than you, faster than Derek, faster than an Alpha.”

“Understood.”

Stiles gently pushed away from Derek. His lover, his love, smiled softly and released his hold. 

“Here goes nothing.” Stiles bit into his wrist, deep, and focused on the slow pulse of crimson seeping past his pale skin. He had to hold off the instinctive healing and infuse the blood with his spark, once thought lost when he’d woken up dead, but always there, deep inside, a bright glimmer of warmth in his otherwise room-temperature body.

 _You’re all I’ve ever wanted, all I’ve ever needed._ Images of their life together, a blue and orange striped shirt, a few hours in a pool, the tight grip of a hand on a shoulder, the first taste of Derek’s lips, the first caress of his fingers, Stiles poured every bit of himself, every bit of his love, his joy, his hope into his spark and imagined it filling his blood and flesh until behind the closed lids of his eyes, he could see the incandescent glow shining through.

The aroma of hot copper tickled his nose a second before the warm rush of Derek’s blood flowed past his parted lips. Stiles brought up his left hand, gently curling around a warm, solid forearm, and swallowed one mouthful, then two, teeth kept blunt. In this, he must only accept, not take and there was zero chance Stiles was fucking this up on his end.

The warm glide of Derek’s tongue over his wrist sent a jolt of heat and want through Stiles’ core. The werewolf, sharpened teeth digging deep, had to take, to respond to Stiles’ offering with his own demand, for longevity, for strength, for the bond.

For what seemed like eternity, but was likely only a minute or two, nothing seemed to change. Then Stiles felt a pull, from his spark, a tug and a jerk and then a click, a snapping into place of something greater than Stiles, greater than Derek, some _more_ in a way he could never hope to explain, never hope to convey with the meager ability of human language.

“Holy shit.” Chris’ soft statement, filled with awe and something else, something Stiles couldn’t parse, pulled him away from the resonance he felt thrumming through his veins and he pulled his mouth from Derek’s wrist.

Blinking his eyes open, slowly, he looked up into a face he’d seen nearly everyday for the last twenty years, but hadn’t since he was seventeen. Gone were the laugh lines around the blue-grey-green of Derek’s eyes. Absent were the white strands that had begun to pepper his midnight hair.

No, before him stood the Derek he’d first met while searching for an inhaler after an ill-advised night of teenage curiosity. His mouth fell open slightly and he felt a flush of power a moment before those eyes brightened with passion's shade.

“Oh my god. Derek.”

The werewolf smiled. “I thought this might happen. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

For the first time in much too long, Stiles began to laugh. They weren’t perfect, everything wasn’t settled, all the pain hadn’t suddenly disappeared, but as his jubilation bubbled up and out, he threw his arms around Derek’s neck and laughed.

Derek lifted him, his palms curling around Stiles’ thighs and drawing the slighter form off the ground so they could wrap around each other. He buried his face behind Stiles’ ear and breathed deep.

“We’re okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with the source material, transformative works are welcome. I hope these resolutions I offer might assuage the achy spot in other readers' chests, even if only because it offers a solid finish. When/if vampireisthenewblack comes back to play in this sandbox, I'm certain she'll (or he'll) do a better job than I. I can't wait to read it!


End file.
